REUBEN
Reverence inborn, habitual humbleness,
Just-dealing memory, and, Life’s great gift—
The heart’s gain’d knowledge ineradicable
Of Love—of proven, real, all-vital Love—
These on his thought laid compensating stress
And sway’d the fair scale back. Nay, more, his soul
Even from out the matrix of despair
Pluck’d forth strong reassurance; her bared brow,
And emptied world, discovering to her
The infinitesimal smallness of herself.
Whence power ensued; and as night sped, such words
Now and again unconscious broke from him:
“It is impossible that all should be
Waste—our love nothing, all her pain no use,
Worthless this land and sea, and all those stars!
There must be some real reason lies beyond,
Sure—some complete plan running fore and aft,
(Could we but see it) why we should be born,
And die, and, this and then betwixt, have pain.
What? How can I tell? Little of dry land
Live corals know, that make it, when they die.
The years are very many, and the world
Enormous. For a moment, in the midst,
I, I—one atom—ask about my lot!
I! What am I? That’s not it—what am I
For? If there’s reason in it—and there is—
And if God knows His business—which He does—
Each atom must ha’ got its atom’s use,
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